Mia Wallace Pulp Fiction Costume Novels & Stories

Mikhail closed the door behind them and set her down. "Welcome." He waved a hand at the entryway, and Piper took her time in appraising what a jewel thief's home was like. It was an old stone mansion with wooden walls and cloth wallpaper that had been painted to look like wooded glens. The walls were warm and rich, with art hanging from the walls along the staircase that led to other rooms. Her bare feet sank into a red-and-blue Persian rug. It was the most surreal moment she'd ever had in her life.

Not up to Two minutes and Melissa was dressed in an pink short and an oversized shirt she found in the wardrobe. It's just so funny how she had fallen in love for Williams shirts even when she knew he is such a pain in the ass. The event of how he pretend to be choking because he drank her tea made her frown. It lead her to wondering what she would have done if the tea was something a man can not take. Of course, it would be investigated and she and Mia or Monica would probably be in jail for the rest of their pathetic lives.

The Hallway concluded with a large window, adorned with white sheer curtains that looked out over the East side of the habitation. Nonetheless, of all the beautiful arrangements, the wall decorations are what truly captured Cara. The walls beheld various grayscale portraits of men and women in what Cara found to be very exposing outfits and erotic positions. On one picture frame, there was a woman with darkened lips and a lace mask on her eyes. She was seated in a chair, her legs spread apart, her arms bound behind her back. There was a man standing behind her, and though Cara couldn't see his face or body, she saw his strong fingers wrapped around the woman's throat.

A shocked gasp made him turn around, to find Alice and Millicent walking towards him, and the sight of them made him laugh out loud before he realized what he was doing. Millie had chosen a layered yellow dress that made her look like something between a princess and a ballerina, with a sparkly tiara on her head, glitter in her hair and cowboy boots on her feet. With that choice of clothes, he very much doubted that Alice would have had any power of choice when Thea and Millie wondered what she would wear. Maybe that's why she was wearing a long dress with several transparent and shiny cloths tied around her waist. There was pink makeup on her face and a toy necklace that looked like it was

It felt like he was almost grateful that he understood me. The wooden wall was made from pure mahogany. It towered above Stephan and me. A switch clicked and white bulbs screwed into the ceiling of the closet illuminated the space. Stephan pushed at the wall gently as it slowly and heavily gave way. A loud click sounded and the doors split vertically into two. I gasped at the sight before me. It was straight out of a fairy tale story. Behind the mahogany wall lay every girl's dream. It was a room, unlike the ones I ever came across. The walls were covered in a mixture of cream and pink wallpapers. There were mannequin dolls with designer dresses clad on them.

The wardrobe suite in the main building was a mausoleum of silk and tulle. Rolling racks of costumes for The Gilded Cage lined the walls, shrouded in protective plastic that crinkled like dry skin every time the air conditioning kicked on. The lighting was surgical—harsh, overhead LEDs that made every stitch on the garments look like a wire.

My life was finally my own. Now, sitting in the back of Sawyer's Mercedes, Ana pressed against my side, tears slipping through her fingers, I watched the Wallaces being led out in handcuffs, squad cars lining the estate. Mrs. Wallace's face twisted with rage, her designer dress rumpled, hair falling from its usual perfect arrangement. Mr. Wallace kept his eyes down, shoulders hunched like a man trying to disappear. Owen looked at me with pure murder in his eyes. "You won't get away with this!" Mrs. Wallace shrieked, fighting against the officer gripping her arm.

"You. Stop right there." I paused. I did not turn my head. Marcella stepped into the dim light of the backstage corridor. She was wearing a crimson silk dress that screamed new money. Her cousin, Hazel, dragged behind her, looking miserable. "I need to know who designed that silver cloak immediately," Marcella demanded. She did not look at my face. She was staring at the empty wardrobe rack behind me. "Tell the designer I am buying it. Name the price. I want it delivered to my dressing room before the festival ends."

There were only two shops in town with enough glass in the windows to make a wormhole when the sun was right. They entered the larger one, which used to be a bank, and it retained some of the vaultish hush. Someone, maybe even the same old tailor who ran it, had painted the marble floors a shocking navy blue—an ocean for gowns to float on—and the racks held only formalwear, arrayed by level of threat. There was a section for what the wolves called “casual” (black slipdresses, lapelless suits), and then there was the Luna aisle, cordoned by velvet rope, watched by a matron with seven tight buns in her hair and a badge that said MRS. HILDA.

Matthews brought out period costumes. "It's tradition," he insisted when I hesitated. "And we have some lovely pieces that would look perfect on you two. Besides, since the museum is all yours, you can have as much fun as you like." Fifteen minutes later, I was wearing a pale green muslin dress with long sleeves and an empire waist, while Nate had swapped his modern coat for a dark wool tailcoat and vest. When we caught sight of ourselves in an old hallway mirror, I couldn't help laughing.